EVERYONE loves a diary. Let’s face it, we’ve all heard of Adrian Mole. People are intrinsically nosey and, like a legion of voyeurs, enjoy nothing more than to rubberneck at other folks’ lives. Imagine my surprise, then, when I came across one of my old diaries the other day. Now I’m not what you would call a show-off, nor am I prone to exaggeration, but I have to say that Samuel Pepys, Anne Frank and Bridget Jones have nothing on me, nor are they anywhere near as prolific.
I might even share an extract with you all in despatches to come, but first let me tell you what I’ve been up to lately.
Some of the local yokels have been on at me about sorting out a local gangster who has been peddling spice to paraffins, walking about like he’s number one and generally causing havoc and hassle wherever he goes. You know me, I’m not the kind of person who goes around looking for trouble but I hate bullies. And there aren’t many things worse than tripping over spiced-up tramps wherever you go.
Gangsters such as the aforementioned like nothing more than to hang around boasting about their exploits, so it didn’t take me long to track him down. He was lording it outside the bookies the other day, impressing three friends with some tall tale about how he’d put a pound in the FOBT and taken £500 out. He was wearing a cheap suit but with an Armani tie. How did I know it was Armani? It had ‘Armani’ written all over it in big white letters.
I approached him in my usual confident way and gave him a bit of a stare. He took immediate offence to this and asked me what I was looking at. I responded with the classic: “YOU, you c*nt.”
It was at this point that I realised he was Scottish. The fact that his suit was tartan, he was holding the last inch of a deep-fried Mars bar in one hand and a can of Irn Bru in the other was a bit of a giveaway, but his daft way of talking was the clincher. “Don’t ye dare call me a c*nt you wee radge,” was his predictable response.
I said: “I think you’d better hand over that £500 so we can help the homeless get back on their feet.”
With his mouth still full of deep fried Mars bar, he replied: “I don’t gie (sic) a f*ck what you think, you doss c*nt.”
Bullies are always show-offs when they’ve got a few of their hangers-on around, but they’re not so tough when they see their mates get picked off one-by-one.
Which is precisely what I proceeded to do.
In the blink of an eye I’d one inch punched the nearest one, head-butted the next to the floor and broke the third one’s nose with a well-aimed elbow.
Now it was just me and him.
I could see the colour drain from his cheeks at my amazing display of street fighting, but he fancied himself nonetheless as he couldn’t be seen to lose face in front of three of his cohorts – not that they were seeing much other than stars right now. He threw the can of Irn Bru at my head to start with. “Mmm… that old chestnut,” I thought as I easily dodged the improvised missile with a calm lean to the left. I stepped towards him and this time he tried a head butt. I simply sidestepped the other way while simultaneously delivering a rabbit punch to his kidneys. While he reeled from that blow, gasping like a beached whale, I shoved the heel of my palm with devastating force under his chin. As his head snapped back I used my other fist to smash him in the solar plexus. It was game over. He was on the deck and the lights were more or less out. I knelt on his arms, more for humiliation than anything else, jabbed him square on the nose with my left and relieved him of his £500 with my right.
Like shelling peas. I donated £400 to the local homeless shelter and kept £100 for a bet.
I think I’ll stick it on Nadal to beat Thiem. He’s no quitter and Nadal defeats in Paris are as rare as rocking horse plop.